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Archive for the ‘grief’ Category

I’m on the edge, the cusp, the jumping off point of my start to recovery and healing…   It’s off to the counselor I go.

I think she will be really good for me.  She seems like a very nice lady, from her emails.  I am anxious to meet her and get started, but yet am extremely nervous.  I hope this helps me. I am not used to telling a total stranger all my dirty secrets face to face… so pray my typing skills carry over into my verbal skills 🙂

There are so many areas for us to work on. So many areas I need to have fixed, like, immediately…

I’m glad I am seeing her today, it’s already started out pretty bad:

The boy was angry, VERY angry…. temper tantrum angry, not sure why… maybe he was sleepy, maybe he was Aspie-ing out on me. (I know that’s not a word, but anyways)

The girl is needing a med change, desperately.  She is clingy and needy, weepy and violent.

The babysitting baby is here early, she is a good baby, but just adds to the mess.

I spent the whole day at work yesterday  with “Mary Sunshine and Christian Happiness”. (She is a whole other blog on her own. )

I am ready for some of this load to be lifted.  Some of this burden to be, at least, redistributed at best!

I still am on auto pilot, on life support, exhausted and drained.

So, Wish me luck… Cross your fingers and say a prayer for me and my new counselor.  I hope she is “The One”.

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According to Wikipedia:  A buoy is a floating device that can have many purposes. It can be anchored (stationary) or allowed to drift with the sea wave.
A Lifebuoy is used as a life saving buoy designed to be thrown to a person in the water to provide buoyancy, usually has a connecting line allowing the casualty to be pulled to the rescuer.

Navigational Buoys aid pilotage by marking a maritime channel, hazard and administrative area to allow boats and ships to navigate safely. Some navigational buoys are fitted with a bell or gong, which sounds when waves move the buoy.

According to me, a buoy is a tender, loving Cable Guy who is there for me to cling to when the waters become rough, violent and non-navigational.thumb_COLOURBOX2224724

He saved me.  He stayed anchored and steadfast the night my mother died, holding me up… physically holding me up for almost 8 hours as she gasped and rattled out her dying breaths.  He carried me to bed, carried me to the funeral, carried me to the burial.  He kept my head above the waves as they crashed and threatened to overwhelm and drown me.  He loved me at my ugliest.  He kissed me at my dirtiest.

He never let me slip under.  He refused to allow me to succumb to the water.  He might float away for just a moment, but is always just…there,   holding the line taut.  Watching me for signs of distress.  Ready to rescue at the very moment I cry out.

It’s always a fear, for the rescuer, that the person they are holding up, the person they are rescuing, might pull them under with their dead weight, thrashing about or panic.  No matter how hard I pull and cling, no matter how panicked and desperate I become, he is always there, steadfast and buoyant.  Holding me up, keeping me breathing, rescuing me his one job for now.

My grief, my depression, my special needs children, my anger, my pain,  my past… all bricks around my neck.  They all work to pull me back under the salt and sea.  They are a constant pull, all dragging and pummeling  me and yet my face is never completely submerged because I have my life buoy, my floatation device, my buoyant and loving Cable Guy.   My rescuer.

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I knew it was sitting there.

I could feel its weight pressing down on my brain. I could feel it as if it were fire.  I was not touching it, but I could still sense the weight of it in my purse.  There was a little over $4 thousand dollars, right there in my purse.  Blood money, free money, will money, payment for 39 years of being moms “perfect child”, her “sweet baby”.

The stress is getting worse.  The kids are compounding everything I feel.  Just like a crushed tomato tied back together with string, I still ooz and bleed with every touch, jab, word. Ready to fall apart, easier than before.

The weight of depression, hopelessness, growing faster than a storm cloud in my mind. “Why can’t we just have one day of peace? Why can’t I have just a moment to think? Why can’t we just spend a day together without the fighting, the anger, the competition for my affections and favoritism?”

I am exhausted. Just thinking of a simple task like cleaning house or making the bed seem to weigh 500 pounds on my bruised brain.  I want to hide. I want to run away and hide.

The money, it’s right there.  It’s ready to burn my hand the moment I touch it.  I’m supposed to use it for bills, Christmas.. the kids, not me… not for myself, the kids.  Don’t touch it.

I slowly pull myself up in the bed.  I glance at the alarm clock, 2:30p.m.  I had fallen here just moments ago.  My bed a rescue raft, floating in my room for me to grab onto and wail into my pillows until the hopelessness and suicidal thoughts pass on by.  My raft is still shaking, threatening to sink.  I’m screaming inside, “It’s not going to get better! It is NEVER going to get any better!”   The kids will never get “well”.  Neither one has any illness that can be cured.  I will just be stuck in this life for the remainder of mine.  The same violence, the same temper tantrums, the same emotional drainage of mom day after day.  It. Will. Never. Get. Better….

I slowly drag my aching heavy limbs out of the bed and start pulling on clothes.  The argument that had just occurred between my children and I still ravaging my brain like it’s on repeat. The same depressing mantra on repeat:  “Its happened before, it will happen again, again, again, it will happen again.”

I look around the house. It’s a disaster. You would think that my teenage daughter, seeing her mother is drowning, would at least help with the housework.  I start pulling together dirty clothes, I make separate piles of colors and observe how they look like piles of dead leaves.  I will do the laundry, I can at least do that.

I quickly start to come out of the fog, suddenly I’m on fast forward.  Laundry, sweeping, dishes, clutter… each task tackled in a mindless rush. I can at least get these things done. I can at least leave a clean house.

The kids are in the background, sighing, stomping, slamming, sniffling… each, in their own passive aggressive way, are driving the nails into my back.  “You deserted me!”  “You took her side”, “you took his side”, “It’s not my fault!” “It’s all his fault/Her fault/YOUR fault!!” Each silent accusation a dart going into my skin. I ignore each dart with a disinterest, a tear slipping out silently instead.  “Don’t treat me like that”, I cry inside.  “I’m the one that loves you more than life!” “I’m the only one that understands you, but I’m tired!! Don’t yell at me, don’t hurt me! It hurts to be used like an emotional punching bag” “it hurts, It hurts, I HURT!!!”

Instead, I just keep cleaning, tears running down my face.  I want to run and hide, back onto my raft, back into my cave, I want to cling to the safety of the bed and hide. I keep doing the dishes.  I look out the window into the backyard.  Birds, a dog, a squirrel… things that usually make me smile instead make me feel the exhaustion of my own inner darkness.  There is such an anger in being depressed, like, how dare the sun shine when I feel such pain? Does it not care that I can only feel, can only see darkness?

Dishes, concentrate on the dishes.  Concentrate on the work.  Feed the bird, feed the dog, mop the floor, change out the laundry, feel the weight of the money in my mind, count it.. weigh it… smell it.. finish the dishes.  Finish the Dishes.

Freedom is in the weight of that money.  Freedom from everything weighing me down in this house, in this life.  It will never get better, so why stick around?  Why should I stay here and watch it all fall apart?  Why should I be the one to always have to fix, mend, tape, glue, wipe, heal… Why should I be the abused one? I can’t think, I can’t heal, I am supposed to be “momma’s STRONG girl” but my strength was obviously buried along with my mother.  It’s holding her hand in the cold darkness, it is certainly not holding my hand as I struggle to stay afloat.

I finish the dishes, I continue to stand at the sink, the moment has come.  The moment that entered my thoughts as soon as the money hit my hands.  Turn around, walk out the door, fill up the car and just go… just GO…. Walk out the door… WALK OUT THE DOOR…

I can’t seem to move.  Whats the problem?!?! Why am I not doing what I should, what I want, What I know will keep my children safe.  I am the problem, I am the reason their life is so chaotic and horrible.. I should leave, let them move on, let someone more stable and healthy deal with their needs.. I Should Just Leave.

I slowly turn around, away from the sink, away from my old life, away from the accusations and the pain. I turn, I turn away and find myself looking at the alarm clock, the alarm clock beside my bed… 2:35 p.m.

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I awoke this morning with complete control and determination.  I laid in bed, unmoving and slowly, brick by brick, built a wall around myself so strong, so impervious, that no amount of “this time last year” or “what if she was still here” would ever break through.  After 2 hours of Macy Day parade watching and distracted Tumblr scanning I suddenly found myself overwhelmed with a sense of loss, pain and grief so great I could not contain the tears.

Today is Thanksgiving.  Today is a day for Thankfulness.  Today is a day of forgiveness and love, family and comfort. Well, it’s supposed to be.

So today I am not going to punish myself. Today I am not going to punish mom. Today I am going to allow myself a moment to miss her, grieve her, love her.  Today is a day to remember the good things about my mom. The loving, caring, nurturing side of mom.  The woman that made the best dressing on earth.  The mother that made the entire Thanksgiving dinner, from scratch, by herself. Worked tirelessly to clean, cook and clean again, so we could see how much she loved us.  The woman who would orchestrate the filling and giving of food baskets that the church group took out each Thanksgiving weekend.  The woman that would sit down and play a game of Wahoo even if she was exhausted from cooking all day.  The woman who loved me, loved me better than anyone else in the family.  My mom.  I miss my mom.

No, I am not in denial. I do remember the many, many, many Thanksgivings that ended with me in tears, mom yelling, kids melting down, guilt laden accusation, squabbles, silences, chilly looks… feeling guilty for leaving daddy behind to suffer alone with her….

But I also remember the love.  I have to remember the love.  I HAVE TO REMEMBER THE LOVE.  It’s hard to explain the two sides to my grief.  The two sides to  my memories.  I am a literal mask of one side happy, one side sad… a drama mask of pain…

imagesHow in the world am I going to sit with my family at the dinner table and act normal?  I have got to start stuffing these feelings back down or I am not going to make it till tonight!  I can’t drown right now.  I have things to do, people to take care of… I can’t drown… I Can’t Drown!!

Why can’t I write a decent post on how much I love MOM?? Why can’t I sit and think of just the good and not be flooded with hurt and pain? ANGER?!?!

This is not the way this was supposed to go.  This was not the words I was supposed to say.

This is not a reprieve.  This is torture.  This is just me…  This is just how life will be for a while, I suppose.

The walking wounded… The “Poor little Robyn” that precedes me and follows me everywhere I go…

I don’t want to become a repellant.  I don’t want people to see me coming and start running the other way, running in fear that I will jabber like the Mad Hatter… crazy maniacal laughter, crazy rambling thoughts of mom… both good and bad.. all mixed into the pot that is my damaged brain… like a bad, goopy mess.

So today, I will fix the chink in my armor.  Glue it back with crazy glue, and I will function… Cause that’s all I can do, right?  That’s all I can do.

Bless you, my friends.

 

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There is a character on the cartoon Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends, that has ALWAYS made me think of my son.

The Scribbles.kendall_scribble(try putting clothes on that!!!)

This morning was no different.

How in the world did I come to allow this tiny army sargent, that is my 9-year-old son, into my home and continually allow him to run amuck in my life?

I am constantly aware of his Autism.  CONSTANTLY.  I am hypervigilint to his ever waking need for reassurance, peace and stability.  I am always policing his food intake (gluten-free diet, folks) and his video game, You Tube and Television consumption.  His homework takes several hours each night due to his inability to stay on task.  He rages if it’s bedtime and he is in the middle of a 45 minute You Tube video. He yells if I tell him to “stop talking and eat”, he is sensitive to every look, word, sound, texture and smell that you can think of…  I am always the calm, passive, rug.  Just someone for him to roll all over when he needs a soft place to fall.  I take the punches, the yelling, the rage and I don’t react.  I AM a punching bag…. on the outside.

I sometimes think about what I would LIKE to do.  Yell back, scream in his face, shake him, smack his mouth for talking to me that way. Spank him. Leave him alone to rage in his room without my audience. But those things can’t be done, not to someone with Aspergers.

If you have never witnessed a true Aspie “melt down”, well then… Bless Your Face.. You are lucky!

It is not unusual for him to scream and rage like a wild animal, slapping and punching himself in the face and stomach, face contorting into something that resembles the Incredible Hulk, suicidal threats rolling off his slobbery lips.  Snot, tears, anger, pain, frustration all pouring out of him like a river.  It’s terrifying, and once you have seen one a parent will do what ever they can to never see another one.

So, we become passive.  We become defenseless.  We allow this other human being to do things to us that we would be running to the shelter to avoid if it was a grown man doing them.

I never thought I would allow another person to speak to me the way my ex-husband used to.  But yet, that’s exactly what I did this morning.  I sat there silently in the car while my son ranted and raved about how bad he feels, and screamed at me for his nose being stuffed up, and berated me for ever taking him to school. Just last night he informed me I was the “best mom ever, and his very best friend” this morning I was his worst enemy, disgusting and stupid.

All in a days work, son… All in a days work.

I guess I hang on for those days that things are good, really good.  I hang on to the memories of  the calm, happy, precious boy who was making me laugh just an hour ago.  The boy who has such a wicked sense of humor I sometimes forget he is only 9.

The boy that loves his Mom more than life.  The boy who cuddles and hugs better than any human on earth.  I have to hold on to that.  I have to belive and trust that, no matter how big he grows to be, he will never lash out and hurt me. Not physically, anyways. I hope.

I just figure it’s my own fault for allowing him to hurt me emotionally and mentally right now.  I know he doesn’t even recall half of the actions and words he spews forth during one of his rages.  So I just have to live off of the sweet precious moments, and pray his rage never bends me further back than I can ever bend… I pray I never snap in half… I pray my back just keeps bending and never breaks.  I have to hold on to that… I have to hang on.

 

 

 

 

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The days that have passed since my last blog have not been any easier, really.  However, I am not the sobbing, quaking, mess that I was last week.  What has changed? What has caused me to feel I could cope, rather than want to run, hide or die?

Well, for one, the Cable Guy finally told me he “loves me”.  Not in any huge flowery display of romance. Just a plain, simple statement that felt more real than anything I have ever felt before.  I laugh now, because it ONLY took him 35 months to say it, but he really has shown it in every way possible. Namely by not dumping my pathetic ass during these past few months of hell!

Another thing that happened, is I finally was fully vindicated.  My stepson now knows it was all his mother, that I never said those awful things about him, and I know he never said those things about me.  We are fine now. Still regard each other with caution and shyness, but better.  He knows I don’t wish to control him, I know he doesn’t want another “mother” but will always need a friend.

So… Am I better? Maybe.  Am I feeling better… somewhat.

I may be getting better at hiding, but I also may be healing.

I’m not allowing myself to talk to my mom. I’m not allowing myself to think of her, miss her, hate her… I am indifferent.  Seems to be the only way I can function normally.  Is it healthy? probably not, is it ok… for now I feel it is.

I can’t sit and dwell on my anger and expect to take care of an Autistic child and a mentally unstable teen! I have to keep some sort of wall up or I will be back to the mess I was in last week.

So, until I find a counselor, until I find a safe place to lay it all down, I am just going to keep shoveling the manure of “I’m Fine” and “Nevermind” over it…

Kinda stinks, but so does life.

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You know something is very, very wrong… when you have to force your foot onto the brake of your car…. rather than plow head first into a “Dead End” on a dirt road.

I sat there for probably 10 minutes… dirt catching up with my car and flying on passed into that big black and yellow sign. I cried, screamed, hit the steering wheel… chastised myself for being such a coward. Told myself I wasn’t even good at killing myself.. I am a complete failure at being a failure. I probably wasn’t even going fast enough.. I would have just damaged my car and never have hurt myself.

Such a loser at being a failure.

I am a mess. I am  a complete book of undiagnosed psychological disorders. I would be a case study for at least a small junior college psychology class.
Depression, Grief, Bi-Polar, Anxiety, Suicidal, Co-Dependant Survivor, Sex Addict, Control Freak, Insomnia, PTSD, Abuse Survivor, Shop Lifter, Liar….
And probably some schizophrenia… in there to.

I don’t know who I am without my mom here to tell me.  I don’t know who I am without that person here to affirm my place. To validate my day-to-day existence. Who AM I??? Who AM I???

She has been gone a month now, and this feeling of “Ok, its been nice… but I’m ready for you to come back now” is overwhelming! I’m ready for her to return from her long trip so she can tell me that I did a good job… that everything will be ok now, that it will all go back to normal, test over.. I, at least, did a fair job… show me the areas that i need to improve. Show me how she would have done things differently, better, how I can learn from this…

I am scared I am going to return back to old ways. Everytime I pulled away from mom… I went spiralling out of control. I became this dirty, horrible, ugly person that did bad, ugly things. I stole things, married a jerk, lied, cheated, drank, had sex with random strangers… all to fill that void that was left after having mom say she was “disappointed in me” after we had a fight or argument… After she found out something bad about me… I always filled that void..
Now I can’t. NOW I CAN”T….

I have others to think of. I can’t drink, it bothers my son; I can’t have random sex, that would kill my sweet boyfriend; I can’t steal… I would go to jail… I can’t talk to anyone… or they will all know… they will all know… they will ALL know…
I have kept things inside and hidden for so long. I have always hidden who I am, from mom. I have ALWAYS been her “sweet baby” Her baby… HER BABY… nobody elses… HERS
 She OWNED me.. she pruned me, shaped me… gave birth to me to be HER child, her baby.. her perfect child… and I fell right in step beside her. Everytime I pulled away as a child I was spanked unmercifully with a belt.. everytime I argued with her… everytime I stepped out of line just for a second I was spanked and slapped and hit and told how bad I was… how I would mind her… Mind her, Mind her… MIND HER…

I minded her for 39 years.
 I was a good little girl. I did what I was told, I let her control every little thing in my life… i lied to her over stupid things.. just because I knew she would not like them.. I Lied, I Lied.. I am good at lying.. I am the best. Now I lie to everyone about how I am…
“I’m fine”, “I’m ok”, “oh, you know.. it’s hard, I miss her, but she’s in a better place now”….

Fuck that!!! I am PISSED!
 How dare she micro manage me, guilt trip me, control me, force me, teach me, preen me, build me up, knock me down, belittle me, control me, control me, CONTROL my EVERY MOVE… and then just LEAVE me?!?!?! How dare she do that to me?!?! How dare she leave me to flounder and drown? How dare she teach me to only swim with her help and then take away my life preserver?!?!

HOW DARE SHE???

I need counseling, I know I need help. I worry that opening up that door and telling everything to a complete  stranger will start me back on that self soothing road… that’s where I learned to steal, thats where I started to spin out of control with drinking, how I learned to go to the bar at 4:30 on a Wednesday afternoon and there was always a horny business man ready for a romp in the parking lot. Hot, stinky breath whispering “Who’s your daddy?” “what a beautiful little girl you are”, stupid Mother Fuckers never  realized that if I was just 1/10th less human I would have killed him at the exact moment he came… But I only smile sweetly and tell him my fake name and I will see him next week. Never to return…

How do i go back to the point of being as raw as hamburger meat… a walking, bleeding, wound for a whole week, while someone the same age as me with only 20 more college hours than me, discusses this messed up client at cocktail parties and in bed with her husband… How do I do that?!?! it’s not judgement… it’s a good story… but how do i know that someone else is out there judging my mom? Me?? My mom was a good lady, she did lots of things for other people in the community… But the mom I saw at home was so different, I always had to remind myself how wonderful she was.. If I start tearing her apart in counseling.. will that mean I am no longer a good daughter? Her “Sweet Baby?”

The Dead End sign was staring back at me. I could turn left and go away from my kids and life.
I could turn Right and head back towards everyone who loves and needs me.

Or I could back my car up, and try it again….

I chose Right…. I think.

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